Sleep Well, My Angel
by Ilse Adelinde
Summary: Edward is breaking him, so he would leave.


**Sleep Well, My Angel**

**Summary:** Edward is breaking him, so he would leave.

**Disclaimer:** I don't own the FMA characters and the song, "Sleep Well, My Angel" by We Are the Fallen

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><p>He beheld his friend's sleeping face. He reached out for his face, wanting to touch that untroubled countenance. He fancied how that skin would feel under his fingertips, he wondered if that nose would wrinkle upon his touch, contemplated if those lips would be soft. But he digressed. He drew his hand back and slapped himself mentally for not keeping his head right. He sighed, and contented himself with brushing a stray lock of hair away from the former's face. He would not; he must not make himself like this boy <em>that<em> way.

He reached for the boy's hand, and there he saw his death in screaming red blotches of blood. It told him of his unspoken grief, of his helpless sighs, his last hopes, and his ebbing life. And here he was, using him as a balm to his own slipping existence. He, who used him to remain sane in this foreign world, can do nothing for him, not even picking up his sick pieces to make him brimming with life again. No, he was helpless, he was useless. How can he help him if he cannot perceive his reality?

How do you repair a dream? How do you heal a dream?

_Watching you sleep for so long, knowing that I can't turn the rain into sun anymore._

_I've given you all that I am; now I'm standing too scared to hold your hand._

_Afraid you might wake to see the monster that had to leave._

His mind wandered. And remembered why he told him his story.

There was hope, a hope that he might remember, that he was not really his brother's parallel, that he was just pretending, and that he was his brother all along. But no, he was different. He did not want to insult the boy by acting like he is another person.

He hates him. He hates his face. A complete mockery of what he had before. But no, he would not treat the boy the way he treated his brother.

He is different. He hates him.

But he wanted to forget everything and just run into him and wrap his arms around him and tell him that his sixteen years of existence was a lie, and that he was truly here with him all along.

But what would that make of him? So he stepped back and watched as his brother's parallel made his heart bleed with every look, with every touch, with every smile he gives so easily.

_'Cause you see the shelter as the storm, holding wind to keep you warm._

_You were everything to me; this is why I have to leave._

_So sleep well, my angel._

And he felt guilty. He was selfish. He used the boy to fill a void in his heart. But still, he was unsatisfied, so he clung to him more, but was unsatisfied all the more. He was wasting; he was breaking into shards and was telling him his stories. His stories screamed for help, asking this parallel to pick him up and to let him believe that he was his brother and he would surely take care of him. Still, he thirsts. And he does the same thing.

Again.

And again.

It does not end at all.

He stands up. He is breaking him. He is destroying him. He will leave. It will mean the death of them. But at least, he will not have to suck the life out of another.

_Under the ash and the lies, something beautiful once, here now dies._

_And the tears burn my eyes, as you sit there all alone, I just wanna come home._

He treads the floor that saw their many nights of dreams written on yellowing paper. He caresses the window that howled their insanity. At the middle of the room and he wished for the time to stop, to let the pain go away, to not let guilt eat him alive. He was a god, so he can do this. Yes, he was a god for in his world, he could amass the stars; in his world, he could grapple with the wind; in his world, he could forbid the falling of the rain. But he is in this world, and all he can do is to wish, to whisper prayers he knows would never be heard.

And this boy, he could stay with him, he could count with him his numbered days, he could try his very best to contain their happiness in a single breath, a single sigh, a single heartbeat. It is useless, though. A heartbeat does not last forever. He would die like others in his lifetime did. And he would again be left with nothing but memories, and ashes, and his tears.

So he would go home, if only to escape this dream.

_I'm sorry, I'm sorry, I'm sorry, I'm sorry._

_'Cause you see the shelter as the storm, holding wind to keep you warm._

_You were everything to me; this is why I have to leave._

And he looks back. If this is a dream, surely this is not happening? If this is a dream; what is one more perversion? Slowly, but unhesitatingly, he crosses the room in three steps, with the floor boards creaking, telling him of his corruption.

He knelt down with his face touching the other's, and drowning in the other's breath, he closed his eyes and kissed Alfons' forehead.

_So sleep well, my angel._

_Sleep well, my angel._


End file.
